In the Bleak Midwinter
by lastpaperbender
Summary: The story of Aubrey of Tirragen, illegitimate son of the traitor Alex of Tirragen. Note: I have revised this from the original version, and have decided to split the story into three smaller novellas; there is a lot of new material, so please R&R! :)
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: I have revised this from the original version, and have decided to split the story into three smaller novellas in the hopes that the story will now be richer and make more sense :) I have added a lot of new material, so for people who read the original, it's worthwhile to look this over again.  
  
Aubrey of Tirragen self-consciously adjusted his belt around the waist of his saffron-colored tunic, tugging at it until he felt it was in the proper position. He peered through the arched doorframe into his former knight-master's room to see if the Duke of Naxen was ready yet for his assistance. Helping the Duke get ready for the Midwinter feast went above and beyond his duties—but Sir Gareth had asked for his help, and Aubrey really had nothing better to do.  
  
The Duke of Naxen came whirling out of his dressing-room, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves as he came. Aubrey stepped forward and fastened the clasps which held the cuffs down, a task the Duke seemed to have trouble with, with his thick, sword-callused fingers.  
  
"Aubrey, you're absolutely indispensable," the large, brown-haired man said with a laugh.  
  
The dark-haired young man grinned quickly as he fastened the other cuff, then turned to grab the Duke's cloak, which lay folded on a chair, and handed it to his former knight-master. Duke Gareth gave him an odd look as he took the garment.  
  
"Is that what you're wearing to the feast?" he asked with a wry smile.  
  
"I'm not going to the feast, so it's a perfectly fine shirt to wear."  
  
The Duke raised his eyebrows at the youth's sudden defensiveness. "Why not?" he asked. "His Majesty always puts on a good banquet for Midwinter—and don't you want to see all your year-mates again? They'll be back at court now."  
  
"Not particularly," Aubrey answered, his tone dry.  
  
The Duke frowned, not at all satisfied with the boy's response. Aubrey sighed.  
  
"I feel like I've got no place there, Sir," he said. "What happens to you in the Chamber of the Ordeal is supposed to be a secret, but everyone knows what happened to me." Even remembering that time brought a flush of shame to Aubrey's dark face—no one not even the King, or the mages and scholars at the University, could explain why, when he had entered the Chamber after his night-long vigil in the Chapel, the room had remained a silent, lifeless expanse of gray stone. His fellows squires had all stumbled out, terrified but triumphant; he had simply walked in and walked out again. Was the spirit that inhabited the Chamber telling him, "You may have learned to read your books and swing your sword, but you're not a real knight" ? Was it because he was the son of Alexander of Tirragen, the son of a traitor? That thought was almost as shameful. One way or another, Aubrey has always been marked out as different. He did not want to go to the Midwinter feast because he was not a courtier or noble, or even a proper knight. He was a bastard son from a disgraced house.  
  
Duke Gareth stirred uneasily before the mirror, perhaps sensing the unhappy direction of his former squire's thoughts.  
  
"I wish you'd come," he said after a moment. "Midwinter is one of those times every year when you should be able to put your cares aside, at least for one night." He turned to face Aubrey, his expression serious. "You do have a place there, you know. You think your status is unclear, but you're a knight by anyone's measure. I've known your grandfather all my life, Aubrey—he wouldn't have risked the King's wrath by enrolling you as a page unless he really saw something worthwhile in you."  
  
Aubrey felt his jaw clench and his face grow hard. True, the Duke had known Lord Hugh of Tirragen his entire life—but he did not understand the old Lord's motives for sending Aubrey to Corus. Aubrey did not fully understand his grandfather's reasons either, but he knew that they weren't as noble as the Duke of Naxen made them out to be.  
  
"I suppose I'll come for a short while," Aubrey sighed after a moment. "If I don't show my face once in a while, the whole court will be convinced I'm up to something."  
  
The Duke gave him a reproachful look. "You have more friends than you think," he said.  
  
"Yes, and more enemies than I care to think about," the dark youth retorted. He went to the door. "Well, I'd better go change my shirt. 


	2. Chapter 2

Still brooding over what the Duke had said, Aubrey ate sparingly of what was served at the large Midwinter banquet tables. He was a small person to begin with, and had an appetite to match, but the unwelcome reminder of his own ambiguous status made the food and drink infinitely less appealing.  
  
"What, the viper's hatchling won't eat his own poison?"  
  
The loud, slurred insult cut through Aubrey's thoughts; he turned his head slowly to see Leander of Wellam and Duncan of Fenrigh leaning back in their seats along the next table. He bit the inside of his cheek, and pretended to ignore them. There had been bad blood between them and him since their first year together as pages, and they never lost an opportunity to make a comment about a "snake like him" poisoning the food.  
  
"Look at that, look at that!" Leander shouted with an unsteady voice; his usually pale face was flushed with the hectic color of too much drink. "Hardly eating enough to feed a bird! Bet he poisoned it himself—didn't you? Drops of his own venom, the little black snake, milked from his own fangs!" The two knights laughed to each other.   
  
"Come on," jeered Duncan, "let's see 'em! Let's see your fangs!" The two made hissing sounds. By now, everyone had turned to look, waiting to see if Aubrey would respond in kind, or walk away with his usual cold disdain. It was past the point where he could tactfully ignore them, he knew; he would have to respond somehow. He hadn't brought a weapon with him—none were ever allowed within the dining hall, and he was too small to go up physically against either Leander of Duncan, let alone the two of them together. Perhaps if he simply stood up and moved to another seat...?  
  
"What's this, then?" The two tables and what seemed like half the room went silent as Alanna the Lioness and the King swept down upon them. Jonathan glowered darkly, while his Champion seemed ready to lash out at any second, her violet eyes blazing.  
  
"Duncan of Fenrigh and Leander of Wellam," said the King, "you disgrace this entire hall with your words and presence. You will apologize to Sir Aubrey, and leave immediately."  
  
Duncan looked sullen, but rose unsteadily and muttered something in Aubrey's direction before stumbling from the room. Leander, however, had been made bold by an evening's worth of wine, and spat on Aubrey's shoe as he got up.   
  
"The Black God take me before I ever ask the forgiveness of a common-born bastard and traitorous snake!" he snarled. "He's the one who disgraces this entire gathering—it's a terrible day for Tortall when the sons of treacherous dogs can sit with decent folk like us!" A murmur went up around the room—whether from agreement or disapproval, Aubrey did not care to know. The young knight watched the King's face—he Jonathan's moods well enough to know that this particular expression meant he would not pursue the matter here, in front of the entire court, on a feast day.   
  
"Take him to his room to sober up," the King quietly told one of the palace guards, who bowed his head shortly and grabbed Leander firmly by the arm. The young nobleman left shouting all the way for the guard to unhand him. While everyone's eyes were turned, Aubrey seized the opportunity to try and slip away. He made it to one of the dark corridors before he turned back to look—he saw Alanna the Lioness watching him over the distance, looking at him with a mixture of irritation, curiosity and revulsion. He knew what she saw—a mirror image of his father, a companion of her childhood, a younger version of the man she had killed. "I'm not him! I'm not my father!" he wanted to yell out at her, at them all. His last remaining scraps of pride restrained him, though, along with the certain knowledge that nothing he could say would ever relieve their suspicions about him. He turned, and walked with all the dignity he could summon down the darkened hallway. 


	3. Chapter 3

"Aubrey—I can't even begin to apologize to you for what happened..." Duke Gareth looked pale and nervous as he paced back and forth across Aubrey's room. The young knight would have found it amusing if he felt less humiliated.  
  
"You have nothing to apologize for, Sir," he said heavily, trying to appear calm as he wiped the stain off his shoe.   
  
"If ever I cross paths with them, I'll show just who's a snake—I'm sure Jon won't rest until justice has been served."  
  
Aubrey sighed. "Sir, you know as well as I do that this matter will be dropped as quickly as possible. His Majesty won't create trouble over Midwinter—and he knows that if he really punishes Leander and Duncan, the nobles of the court will have something to say about. Those two aren't the only ones who think I'm a poisonous, treacherous serpent."  
  
The Duke of Naxen dropped his gaze—he could not deny it, much as he wanted to. He drummed his fingers against the mantelpiece. "You're not a snake or a traitor, Aubrey," he said. "I know, even if they don't, that you're not your father all over again. I've told Jon and Alanna a thousand times..."  
  
"I appreciate your good word, Sir, but if they've made up their minds about me already, nothing you say will change that." Aubrey sat down softly on his bed, and shook his head. "I wonder if I wouldn't have been better off herding sheep all these years for Audwin." He gave a little snort of laughter at the thought.  
  
Duke Gareth wasn't listening. "I'm going straight to the King and Queen with this," he said to himself. "It's disgraceful, letting those two speak to you like that—I can't let the issue drop."  
  
"There's nothing else you can do tonight, Sir."  
  
The Duke scowled, then relaxed. "I suppose not," he sighed. "Goodnight, Aubrey. Don't worry, I'll speak to them."  
  
Aubrey nodded a goodnight to his former knight-master, then turned to the window to think.  
  
*****  
  
King Jonathan of Tortall nodded a terse greeting to Duke Gareth as the large, brown-bearded man entered the room.  
  
"Thank you for seeing me at this late hour, your Majesty," the Duke said, easing himself into the chair opposite the King. "I wouldn't have asked, expect that it's a very important matter to me—and, I think, to you as well."  
  
Jonathan stroked his beard, curling the ends under with his finger as he thought. "The matter of Aubrey?" he asked quietly, "yes, I though so; it's been a long time in coming."  
  
"The way Leander and Duncan treated him tonight was disgraceful—it's the way he's been treated here since he was an eight-year-old page! And just because he had the misfortune to be the son of--"  
  
The King held up a warning hand. "I know his background, Gary," he said. "I agree that he was very ill-treated tonight; Leander and Duncan have been made acutely aware of my displeasure, I assure you. But the fact is, there is a very legitimate question about his right to be here at all. I tested the limits more than ever before when I allowed him to enroll as a page. I know he was your squire, and that the two of you are quite close but—Gods above, Gary!—he's the son of a traitor and a farmer's girl...!"  
  
"And his heart counts for nothing?" the Duke asked bitterly.  
  
The King made an exasperated sound. "That's not what I meant, and you know it—and I only have your word about his heart, as you put it. You can't deny that he takes after his father in some very unsettling ways."  
  
"What?! He doesn't belong here because he's dark? Because he's swarthy?"  
  
"I'm speaking of his secretiveness, Gary. Alex was just as silent and secretive—we never guessed what sort of treason and hatred he was fostering all those years."  
  
"He's not his father, Jon! Why can't you accept that he's a completely different person from Alex?"  
  
The King leaned back in his chair, expression troubled. He hadn't realized how biased and short-sighted his argument sounded. But Aubrey was Alex's son...  
  
Duke Gareth sighed heavily, and bent forward to speak. "Jon, listen to me: I've served you every year of my life since we were pages together, and in that time I've never lied to you, or hidden anything from you, or served you ill in anyway. I know you think he'll turn out like his father; I know you can't bring yourself to trust him. But I hope it means something to you when I give you my word that Aubrey is as good and worthy a young man as any nobly-born knight you can name. He deserves better than what he's been given."  
  
Jonathan drummed his finger irritably against the armrest of his chair, then gestured to one of his attendants. "Please bring Aubrey of Tirragen to me as soon as it is convenient," he told the man, then turned back to the Duke.  
  
"Alright, Gary," he said. "I'll give him a chance to prove you right." He shook his head. "I still have my misgivings about him—and I'm sure Alanna will give them all voice for me—but I can't deny him at least a chance."  
  
The attendant was not long in coming, and when he entered the room, both men were astonished to see him alone. "I beg pardon, your Majesty, your Grace" he said with a polite cough, "but Sir Aubrey is not in his quarters." 


	4. Chapter 4

The dying rays of the sun caught a wisp of smoke rising from the chimney of the farmhouse as Aubrey rode down the hill. The squire reined his sturdy, gray mare, Magli, to a stop at the crest of the hill, and paused to look down at the little pocket in the earth. The packed dirt road wound like a ribbon down towards the old stone house, from whose windows light came glimmering out into the rapidly descending twilight. The snow-covered fields gleamed white in the light of the rising half-moon as Aubrey spurred Magli forward down the hillside. He rode down past the huts where Audwin's hired shepherds lived during the winter, past the well and water trough, past the squat house to the stables in back. Gad, the stablehand who had been Aubrey's friend through his childhood, greeted him with a cry of joyous surprise. "Ye've come!" he shouted exultantly, ruddy-gold curls bouncing and hazel eyes sparkling as he leapt forwards to take Magli's reins. "Eh, but th' master and missus'll be pleased...they said tha' couldn't come this Midwinter, though?"  
  
"Duke Gareth gave me leave to come home for a bit," Aubrey improvised, smiling as he dismounted. Gods, but it felt so good to be back here! " 'Ere, I'll take yuir Magli...just tha' get in an' see them!" The squire agreed with a laugh, and waved goodbye to his friend.   
  
He ran across the yard, and beat on the heavy wood of the front door. His mother Signy came to the door, wiping her hands on her plain apron. Her small, triangular face, still pretty despite the years, lit up with pleasure when she saw her son outside. "Aubrey!" she exclaimed, pulling him into the house. "Alajos, William! Unne! Yuir brother's come home!" she called. Scrambling sounds could be heard from the back room, and after a few seconds Aubrey's three younger half-siblings appeared in the kitchen. Alajos and William were twins, both sturdy boys of twelve, with their father's curly brown hair and mother's gray eyes. Unne, at seven years, was a small version of their mother: petite and delicate like a little bird, with straight strawberry-blond hair and eyes like soft gray clouds. She giggled when Aubrey presented her with a stick of candy as a Midwinter present, and bobbed in a curtsey. His half-brothers accepted their gifts with more dignity, thanking him politely before they retreated again to the back of the house. His mother had brought him a mug of hot drink, and gestured for him to sit down at the battered kitchen table.  
  
"Audwin's out in th' barn," she explained as the took a sip of the drink. "One of the ewes went into labor just 'afore tha' came, so he won't be back for a while." She watched him, gray eyes thoughtful. "Eh, what are ye doin' here, lad?"  
  
He was silent for a moment, trying to decide what to tell her—that he had been driven from the palace with suspicious glances and insults? That he had not passed the Ordeal, and that he was no true knight?   
  
"I had nowhere else to go," he said quietly.  
  
"What d'ye mean?" she asked. "Why, ye're a knight, aren't ye? Haven't they got a place for tha'?"  
  
Aubrey tried to explain to her how the Ordeal took place, and how it had not worked for him, but he could see that his mother understood little of what he said. She shook her head with perplexion when he had finished.  
  
"Ye'd better go see yuir grand-da tomorrow," she said after a moment, "for I cannae advise ye on such things...but come, let's nae think on such things! 'Tis Midwinter, and tha'rt home." She smiled warmly, and touched his shoulder. "I'm glad ye're here, lad."  
  
*****  
  
Lord Hugh of Tirragen watched his grandson across the table, looking the boy over between sips of clean, strong-smelling Yamani green tea. The resemblance was uncanny, he thought—for all the world, it could have been his son Alex, aged eighteen, sitting down again after all these years for breakfast. The midmorning light that came through the latticed window caught the wiry, night-black hair and dun-colored skin the same way; the neat, trim nose and thin lips were the same. Time after time, Alex had sat in that same place, just so—where had he gone? What had gone wrong?  
  
Aubrey stirred uneasily under his grandfather's scrutiny. Lord Hugh shook his head slightly, clearing his thoughts, and took a drink from his teacup to compose himself.  
  
"I'm glad you're home for Midwinter, Aubrey," he said, "but I must admit, I'm a little surprised to see you. I would have thought that your duties in Corus would have kept you there over the season."  
  
The youth's expression became guarded, and oddly ironic. "I have very few duties at the moment," he said. "After the Ord...well, after I was given my shield, I remained in Duke Gareth's service until. There has been no other need for me."  
  
"Hmm...that sounds promising, though," the Lord of Tirragen answered. He did not delude himself with hopes that Aubrey would become a highly visible knight of the realm, not with his dubious parentage, but the possibility of good employment with the Duke of Naxen was a very good prospect indeed. "He was a good knight-master to you, I trust?"  
  
"None better," Aubrey replied, straightening in his chair. "I was very fortunate that he chose me, of all my year-mates. If he hadn't, I don't think anyone else would have taken me on."  
  
Lord Hugh cleared his throat a little, and drank from his tea again. He did not like to admit it, but the boy most probably had a point. "Since we are being frank with each other," he said to his grandson, "I would like to speak with you briefly about the inheritance I intend to pass on to you—no, don't gawp at me like that; if I went to the trouble of enrolling you as a page and recognizing you as a member of the house of Tirragen, I should think it stands to reason that I would provide for you and your mother upon my death." He swallowed, looked at the faint ring at the bottom of his cup, and poured some more tea before he spoke again.  
  
"The truth, Aubrey, is that I am getting on in years; life has dealt me any number of hard blows, and I wish to prepare for any more which may fall. You may recall, when you were perhaps twelve years old, I took you to a small village called Drellbridge?"  
  
"On the river? Yes, I remember."  
  
"There is a small manor house there on the bluffs which has gone uninhabited for the last generation, since the last Lord Seneschal died childless. I have tried the keep the village and environs in good order, but that is extremely difficult from this distance—I can think of no-one better qualified to get it back in order than you, Aubrey. What do you say?"  
  
It took the boy a moment to find words. "I'm speechless, Sir," he gasped finally. "I can't begin to thank you."  
  
"It's the very least I could do for you," Lord Hugh said gruffly. "I suppose we'd best go down and have a look at it, though, eh? I don't want to waste any time...would you be ready to go this afternoon?"  
  
Aubrey nodded. "Of course. Just give me a short while to write a note to Ma, and to pack my things, and I'll be ready."  
  
"Very good," the Lord of Tirragen said. He fell silent, watching his grandson, the living memory of the boy he had lost sight of long ago. Had it been folly to try to correct his own mistakes in Aubrey, to try to restore the good name of the house of Tirragen through Alex's unfortunate bastard son? Had he done the boy a disservice in imposing such a life upon him? Worse still, did the boy hate him for it? Aubrey's dark eyes were turned away; Lord Hugh could find no answers there. 


	5. Chapter 5

Dappled sunlight cast patterns on the forest floor as Aubrey, Lord Hugh and a guard rode East toward the village of Drellbridge and the surrounding lands. They still had the foothills and mountains to cross before they came to the river which divided Tortall and Tusaine; Aubrey had spent most of the time in deep thought, reflecting upon his exile from Corus. He had only begun to regret not telling Duke Gareth where he had gone; at the very least, he supposed he could have at least said his farewells to the only man who had protected him in the palace, and who had championed him at every turn. He did not doubt that his sudden flight from the city would be taken by the courtiers as a sure sign of his unworthiness and guilt; they would say to themselves, "So, Leander of Wellam was right after all!"  
  
Aubrey supposed he had taken a coward's way out—the Code of Chivalry he'd been taught as a page demanded that he stay and fight for his reputation. But he just hadn't had the heart to stay in Corus, to live among people who watched every move he made with intense suspicion, waiting for him to repeat his father's treason. He had often wondered what his knight-master had seen in him, why the Duke had fought so hard to defend his squire—had Duke Gareth known Alexander of Tirragen in his youth? Perhaps even been a friend? Aubrey had never had the courage to ask; it was too personal a question, on both sides.  
  
Lord Hugh shifted slightly in his saddle, discomfited by his grandson's unnerving silence. "A copper for your thoughts?" the older man asked after a moment.  
  
Aubrey looked at him sharply. "I don't really have much on my mind," the dark boy lied. "I'm just watching the passing countryside."  
  
The Lord of Tirragen clearly did not believe a word of it, but did not press his grandson further on the subject. They continued in uneasy silence, until Lord Hugh announced that they would stop at the mountain top to rest the horses for a short while. Aubrey welcomed the chance to dismount—Magli was a fairly easy mount, as horses went, but even a seasoned rider like Aubrey was glad to get out of the saddle after half a day's ride. When they stopped, he removed the gray mare's bridle and let her drink from a spring that flowed from a rocky outcrop. While she drank deeply of the cold, clear water, Aubrey took a moment to survey the river valley below. The Drell gleamed faintly green in the noontide sun, and beyond the ribbon of water, the flat expanse of central Tusaine stretched out to the horizon. The swarthy youth smiled faintly—now he saw another of Lord Hugh's reasons for wanting someone trustworthy at Drellbridge. The Tusaine War had ended some four years before Aubrey's birth, and the small country to the east had remained placid every since—but as Duke Gareth was fond of saying, "the leopard does not change his spots." The Lord of Tirragen knew, if the King and his companions did not, that Aubrey would keep a watchful eye on any unusual activity on the other side of the river.  
  
"Am I ready for it?" Aubrey wondered to himself. Successfully maintaining Drellbridge and its environs would prove beyond any doubt that he was a true member of the House of Tirragen, and worthy of his shield—but he could not afford to fail. "Of course," he reminded himself, "all of this is contingent on Luach and Martin not having anything that say on the matter." Lord Hugh made fine promises now, but Aubrey knew better than anybody that the Lord of Tirragen's two living sons had the final word these days.  
  
"Aubrey? Is your mare refreshed and ready to go again?" came Lord Hugh's voice.  
  
The youth called out that he was coming, and gently slid the bridle back over Magli's gray nose.  
  
"I didn't mean to sound churlish before," he told his grandfather as they made their way down the mountain pass, "I have a lot on my mind, but I wanted to thank you for offering me a place at Drellbridge."  
  
The old lord smiled crookedly. "It was the least I could do, I suppose," he sighed. "After what Alex—well, you deserved it more than anyone."  
  
Aubrey smiled shyly in return, caught off guard by this unusual display of affection. "You have been the best of fathers, Sir," he said quietly. He thought he saw something shining in the corner of the older man's eye as the Lord of Tirragen replied, "And you have been the best of sons."  
  
*****  
  
Aubrey was so contented in this new-found peace with Lord Hugh that it took him a moment to react when their guard dropped from his horse without a sound. He reined Magli to a halt, and gasped when he saw the arrow that stuck out of the man's chest at a jarring angle.  
  
"Bandits!" he shouted to his grandfather as he spurred his mare forward and whipped his own arrow and longbow up to "ready" position. There must have been some manner of magic at work, for Aubrey's senses tingled once, and then two arrows, fletched with rare griffin feathers, flicked out from the trees. One buried itself in Aubrey's shoulder, lodging itself with a surety and bite that no ordinary arrow should have possessed. The dark youth resisted the urge to slump forward onto Magli's neck in pain, and instead wheeled the mare around to search for his grandfather. Lord Hugh too had tumbled from his saddle, and lay on the path, chest heaving and face contorted with agony.  
  
Two men were approaching from the trees on the side of the road. Aubrey loosed his arrow at one of them, but the man snaked quickly to the side. The young knight readied another shaft, but that arrow lodged in his shoulder had begun to exact its price; his arm crumpled, and the bowstring went slack, useless. The man had had shot at—a heavy-set, blond giant—reach up and easily unseated him.  
  
"Easy with him, Cullen!" came a clear, male voice. Through his haze of pain and fear, Aubrey could discern a strange accent. "Take the arrow out, I want the boy alive," the voice came again. "The other two you may leave, it's only him I'm concerned about." Aubrey felt the big man, Cullen, wrap his beefy fingers around the arrow's shaft—as he pulled it, the world went dark. 


	6. Chapter 6

Margaret Foss, called Maggie, was not what anyone would call beautiful. She had a large, blunt nose, red from the cold, and huge, brown eyes, a hard little face, stubborn round chin, and a tangle of riotously curly hair the color of dead grass. Two years of hardship and vagrant living had made their mark upon her, weathering her nut-brown skin, making her sharp-tongued and short-tempered. And yet, beneath all the dirt and quarrelsomeness and cunning, there was a sort of elusive prettiness. Although she would never have admitted it to Cullen or any of the band, she had often daydreamed in her early days with the outlaws that a knight would come charging through the trees to carry her away to a great white castle, or that she was really a great lord's daughter, instead of a runaway farmer's girl. Those dreams had died during her first night with Eryth, Cullen and their men--none of them were either gentle or skilled with women, and the truth of her situation had hit her like a blow to the face--but some inkling of them had survived, unbeknownst to her.  
  
So, it was with wonder and a touch of bitter nostalgia that Maggie observed the pretty, fine-featured boy that Cullen, Eryth and the Sorcerer brought back to the camp, unconscious and bound with stout rope. He was dressed in plain clothing, but she was not fooled. His dark, young face held some of the groomed beauty of the nobility, and his hair and nails were clean and neatly trimmed.   
  
"What are ye doin'?" she spat at the three men, directing an acid look at Cullen. The huge, fair-haired man looked uneasy under her glance.   
  
"Followin' orders," he answered jerking his head at the other two. "I know 'tain't usual to bring 'em back to the camp, but the Sorcerer here, he was most insistent."  
  
Maggie turned her gaze upon the tall, golden-skinned man who stood aloof from the other two outlaws. He looked like a Carthaki or perhaps a K'mir, coldly handsome with a proud hawk nose, and icy, hooded eyes. Those eyes were flat gray, like silver coins, clear and sharp and shrewd; they sent shivers up her back. There were few people who cowed Maggie, but the Sorcerer was one of them. She had watched him with deep misgiving since he had first associated himself with their band. He nodded slightly at her, almost challenging her to question his wishes.  
  
"Ye've gone to a lot o' trouble to get yuir hands on that boy, I see," she snapped after a moment, crouching down by the fire with her back to them. "D'ye plan to just drop him there, and leave him in the snow all night?"  
  
"Warm him up by the fire," the Sorcerer said curtly. "Maggie, I want that arrow from his shoulder."  
  
Maggie felt her lip curl into a snarl as Cullen and Eryth carried the boy's limp body over and slung it down near her. "What does he want with this one?" she wondered to herself, pulling her ragged and dirt-streaked cloak from her shoulders and covering the dark youth with it. She knew that the Sorcerer had employed Cullen, Eryth and their men to capture a boy named Aubrey of Tirragen, and that he had lain in wait for this moment for nearly two months. "He'll be hounded from Corus soon, I've made sure of it," the Sorcerer had promised the men, when they complained that they waited in vain. "He'll come—I haven't watched him for eighteen years just to misjudge him now."  
  
She rubbed her hands once to warm them, then turned down the edge of the cloak to see to the arrow. The arrowhead was buried deep in his left shoulder; sawing away with her paring knife, Maggie cut the shaft of the arrow away, leaving just enough for her to grip. Her hands trembled as she worked—she had seen her father do this once, years ago, but she'd never done it herself. A quick glance at the Sorcerer's fierce, raptorial face told her that if she failed to save the boy, her own life would be forfeit. She fit her hand around the shaft, closed her eyes and pulled.  
  
*****  
  
A sudden, tearing pain in his shoulder quickly wrenched Aubrey to his senses, bringing him up out of the darkness. He gasped, involuntarily lashing out, only to find himself securely bound. His feet connected with something, and he heard a muffled grunt as someone fell backward.  
  
"Get him up!" a man called—it was the same, accented voice Aubrey remember from before. "Put him by that oak over there—I wish to speak to him privately." The young knight felt himself being lifted by his legs and elbows, but was in too much pain to put up much of a struggle. His two captors dumped him unceremoniously beneath a tree some distance away.  
  
"Go," rang out that strange voice again; the sound of boots in the snow faded into the distance. When they had departed, Aubrey wriggled a bit in his bonds, trying to find a weakness or a way to loosen the ropes. But these men knew their craft well. He sighed in defeat, and relaxed against the oak, trying to make himself comfortable at least.  
  
"Knowing Eryth as I do," came a voice from the shadows, "you'll find no release from those ropes on your own." A tall man who made Aubrey shiver stepped out from between the trees. A self-assured smile crossed the handsome, angular face as the man stooped down to be eye-level with Aubrey. "I know who you are, Aubrey of Tirragen. I know whose son you are. I have come to make a bargain with you."  
  
Oh Gods, Aubrey thought, panic rising within him. "Explain yourself," he demanded, in as imperious a voice as he could summon, calling upon all of the honor of his tentative connection with the House of Tirragen. The man smiled, and gave Aubrey a deceptively friendly pat on the cheek. "Your line was so useful to my old Teacher…perhaps you have heard of him?"  
  
There was no doubt in Aubrey's mind as to who the man was referring to. "Roger," he said flatly, feeling nausea in the pit of his stomach. The man nodded. "Yes…but that is beside the point. I have waited a long time for you, Aubrey. I have watched you. I know what you are searching for. You search for a prince, a king among men. You always have, just as your father did. Alex found his king in Duke Roger: he fell in love with Roger, in a way. The Duke seemed to him to be the very semblance of honor, compared to Jonathan, a man he could serve and devote himself to for all of his days. You search for the same thing, a great man among all of the people of this world, and you have not found him yet. You sought your king in your uncles Luach and Martin, and did not find him. You sought him in King Jonathan, and in Duke Gareth, and did not find him…"  
  
Aubrey huddled against the trunk of the oak tree, frightened and miserable. How did this man, this stranger, know his inmost thoughts? "You think I will see this king among men in you?" he managed, voice cracking. The man gave him a hard look, but could not come up with an answer to that. Aubrey shook his head, gaining courage from the man's silence. "You are not the one I have been looking for," he said quietly.  
  
A nasty, cruel smile crossed the man's face. "Do you know why you have not found him?" he asked. "Because he does not exist. Wake up, child. Wake up, and make what you can of this world. Do not make your father's mistake!"  
  
Aubrey hung his head in despair. The man was right. He had seen enough of the world and of men's cruelty to know that such a man as he sought could not possibly exist. "What bargain would you make, then?"  
  
Again, that cruel smile. "Serve me, even though I am not the great king that you seek. Serve me, and I shall release you now and make you a great man. I will make you Lord of Tirragen, and you establish yourself as a great man, and clear the name of Tirragen from your father's treachery."  
  
Aubrey looked at the man solemnly. "It is true that I wish to restore my family's honor, and my own honor. But what would the cost be? My rise to Lordship would mean the deaths of my grandfather and uncles. I would not have their blood on my head."  
  
"Your Grandfather is wounded, and old, and is not long for this world. And Luach and Martin bear you no love, Martin especially. What are their deaths to you? Alex found his king, and served him well. Are you so much weaker than him?"  
  
The young knight recoiled, and shrank against the tree. "No, I will make no bargain with you," he said. "Even to fulfill my own desires, I would not do such a thing. I am not my father!"  
  
The man frowned, and rose to his feet, brushing the leaf mold off of his trousers. "Well, then. If you will make no bargain with me, then I will leave you to the tender mercies of Eryth and his band." 


	7. Chapter 7

Maggie watched from a distance as Cullen, Eryth and the other men drifted slowly off to sleep, warm and high-spirited from the whiskey she had plied them with. She sat by the dying fire, watching and thinking. The Sorcerer had rode to Drellbridge after finishing with the boy, off on some business Maggie did not care to know about. "Now what?" she thought to herself, squinting into the darkness, trying to find Aubrey's shape. "He's got the boy he wanted, the lad he's hunted for—Gods only know how long! What does he plan to do with him now, just leave him out in the snow with that wound?"  
  
She chewed a rough thumbnail, and tried to remember how Eryth and his men had first fallen in with the Sorcerer. It had been a simple contract, at first—the boy Aubrey of Tirragen, live and whole, in exchange for magical protection from the troops of the King's Own who patrolled Fief Tirragen routinely. The band couldn't go hundreds of miles a-field to capture the boy, Eryth had argued. "I'll send him to you," the Sorcerer had answered, "I'll rout him from Corus like a whipped dog. All you need to do is lie in wait for him, when he comes through." It had started out as a bargain, easily enough, but soon the Sorcerer had gotten Eryth in his thrall—the tall, golden and icy man had resorted more and more to threats and intimidation. One night he had withered the outlaw's arm down to the bone, blighted it in order to ensure the submission of the man and his followers. Eryth wore a long glove over it now, but Maggie saw every day how it dangled uselessly at his side, how the bandit would occasionally cradle it against his chest, then let it fall again. Since then, it had seemed to Maggie like the Sorcerer had enslaved them all, holding them to his will with the chains of horror and fear. There was that strange impulse in him—he was not content with simply bargaining with them, but had to get his way by coercion, by terrorizing them into obedience.   
  
"Perhaps that's what he wanted with Aubrey," she thought to herself, feeling as though a veil of mystery had suddenly been pulled away. "He wants power over him—but who is Aubrey, that his submission should matter so much to the Sorcerer?" She pulled her tattered brown cloak around her shoulders, restless. "What if I defy the Sorcerer?" she wondered, surprised by her own boldness. "If only I could break his hold over me, I would at least feel clean, unashamed. Aubrey...if I could only set him free, give him a chance to get away...that would go a small way towards undoing the evil I have helped the Sorcerer do..."  
  
Another part of her mind rebelled at the thought. "Set him free?" it asked "Am I mad? He's a noble! I have no use for the likes of him, who have kept my folk down in the dirt for generations! If I let the Sorcerer have his way with the boy, he'll have what he wants, and leave me and mine alone."  
  
She bit her nail again. "No that doesn't seem right—it wouldn't be for his sake, it would be for mine. If I let the Sorcerer have him—Gods above!—I'll never have a clean soul again."   
  
Subtly, she reached into her pocket and felt the hilt of her paring knife; then she got up, and, moving with the silence that came from years of living an outlaw's existence, went to the oak where the boy was tied up.   
  
*****  
  
Aubrey spent most of the night beneath the tree, slipping in and out of sleep. He would dream that he was his father, rising up against King Jonathan with hate in his heart, and being cut down in the throne room in Corus. He would awake shivering, denying his relationship to the man in the dream, swearing to himself that he would never follow in his father's footsteps. Violent nausea filled him, but he bit his lip until the feeling subsided. The man who had come with Eryth was a mage, surely. Why would he be having these dreams otherwise? He wanted to sob, to cry out, but contained his raging emotions so that the sorcerer would not have the satisfaction of hearing his grief.  
  
A twig snapped nearby. Aubrey nearly cried out, but a dirty, thin hand covered his mouth. "Quiet, tha'," Maggie hissed. "I took me well nigh an hour t' get enough drink into Eryth to get him tae sleep, so don't tha' go wakin' him!" She pushed Aubrey forward a little ways, and the young knife could feel a dull knife blade working at the ropes at his back. "I dinnae ken why I'm helpin' tha'," she muttered. "Yuir just a noble 'un, ye're of nae use tae me…" Her musing was broken by a low cry of triumph as a rope snapped and loosened around him. She helped him unwind it, then kicked it a little ways into the snow. Aubrey stood up a stretched.  
  
"Thank you," he said gravely, meeting her eyes. She looked away, suddenly shy, and began wiping the knife blade with her tattered skirt hem. "Nae trouble, nae trouble," she said. "Here, let's go." She stuck the knife into her pocket, gave the rags which bound her feet a last tug, then moved towards the edge of the clearing.   
  
Aubrey paused a moment, baffled. She wanted to come with him? Why? He reeled suddenly, feeling the effects of his blood loss earlier. Scowling, Maggie came back, and pulled his arm over her neck and shoulder, supporting him. He had no choice but to take her help, it seemed. 


End file.
